


A Series of Obvious Events

by thecircleofstupidity



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Child Abuse, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Murder, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-04-30 16:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5171741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecircleofstupidity/pseuds/thecircleofstupidity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can't help but wonder if this is really happening. Did someone actually finally notice everything your mother was doing? Sure, she put on a great facade for the public eye, but you suppose someone was bound to see through it eventually..." </p>
<p>Everything changes for Vriska when a social worker shows up to take her and her sister away from their abusive mother and sends them to live with their Aunt Marcella, the co-owner of a successful shipping company with more than a few shady dealings. Now, Vriska tries to adjust to her newfound sense of freedom while possibly uncovering the dark underground dealings of the town. Because that's just what Vriska does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been sitting on this fic for a while and atm only have the first chapter actually in one piece so I thought I'd post it and see where it went. Let me know what you guys think! Also spidermom's human name is just kind of a generic suburban mom name. The other human names make sense, I promise. I'll make a list as more of them pop up and become relevant but yeah.

It's been a long day. First, your mother shouts at you for waking up three minutes late (it was actually ten, but who's counting?), then, before you can respond, a man shows up at the door. You just assume this is one of your mother's many “the one”s and take your cereal to go eat in your room. However, the man stops you. He says he wants to have a word. Shooting a glance at your mother, almost as if to ask permission, you grumble that “it's too early for this bullshit” and start to leave. He stops you again, looking at your mother as he addresses you.

“It won't take long. I promise.”

You look at your sister who shrugs. She looks tense. She rarely doesn't know what to do. Begrudgingly, you lead the man to another room—the guest bedroom—and he tells you to sit. You do, eating your cereal and keeping eye contact with him so that he knows you're no pushover. This may have been a mistake, however because he points at your left eye.

“What happened there?”

You automatically raise a hand to move your bangs in front of the large, pinkish scar—one of your few friends often joked it looked like a shooting star flying off into your hair.

“Nothing,” you respond, “Accident on the fourth of July. I let go of the firecracker too late.”

 

You don't break eye contact. You're an expert liar, after all. No need to look shifty. He doesn't seem to believe you. His eyes shift to your exposed shoulder and you pull at the stretched out collar of your shirt.

 

“Could you show me your back?”

 

You suppose it's an innocent enough request. His voice is soft, gentle, like he's talking to a frightened child and not an annoyed teenager. Hesitating for only a moment, you set your bowl on the nightstand and turn around, pulling up the back of your shirt. Your ears pick up the almost inaudible gasp he lets out and you can't help but exhale in a sharp, hollow laugh. Many scars with even more excuses riddle your back, a map of your unfortunate sixteen and a half years of life.

 

What feels like forever passes and you snap, “Can I put my shirt down now? _Sir?_ ”

 

You're sure to emphasize the word, just like mother taught you. _Whenever you address your elder, you refer to them as 'sir' or 'ma'am'. Am I clear?_ You're still not entirely sure your shoulder's back in place. The man tells you you can and you go back to eating your cereal.

 

“'Nythin' else you 'anna know?” you ask through a mouthful of corn flakes. He sighs and shakes his head.

 

“No. No, thank you. I think I've seen enough. I may talk to your sister though...” He pauses, looking suddenly guilty. “I'm so sorry, I never caught your name.”

 

You look him over, judgment clear on your face as you straighten your glasses. After a few seconds, you decide it can't hurt anything to give him your name. “It's Vriska.”

 

“Vriska,” he repeats back to you like an annoying parrot. “Right. I'm Mr. Connolly.”

 

He holds out a hand for you to shake and you ignore it. You draw the line at physical contact. Connolly clears his throat and dismisses you, asking almost too politely if you could send your sister in after you.

 

“Who is he? What does he want?” Aranea asks, clearly hating that she doesn't have all the facts. You just shrug and pretend to yawn.

 

“I dunno who he is, but he wants to talk to you now.”

 

“Well what did he talk to you about?”

 

Again, you shrug and Aranea huffs angrily.

 

“Why—are—you—such—a— _pain?_ ” she growls, punctuating each word with a step as she stomps off towards the room.

 

“I ain't a pain,” you grumble to yourself. “S'not my fault you're uptight...”

 

Thankfully, your mother leaves you alone to finish your breakfast. How long has it been since Aranea went in there? _Poor guy_ , you think, s _he must be talking his ear off._ The two emerge finally, Connolly looking grave. He approaches your mother, pulling something from his pocket—a wallet? No, a badge.

 

“I'm from child services,” he explains. Well duh, you think. Why the hell didn't he say that when he came in? Connolly continues, “I'm here to take your children on the report that you're abusing them.”

 

“ _What?”_ your mother snaps,shooting a deadly look at you. “I do _nothing_ of the sort! What did they tell you?”

 

“Mrs. Serket—.”

 

“Miss,” your mother corrects.

 

“Ms. Serket—my apologies—your youngest is covered in scars.”

 

“She's a very active child.” Ah, yes, the 'rowdy child' card. “She plays rough with the other children. Those scars are her own doing.”

 

_Bullshit_ , you think, but you say nothing. You instead go through the list of scars and their excuses in case there's any questions. Lower left, almost on your hip: car key for saying some—you fell on the playground; Right shoulder to left hip: kitchen knife when you gave her your report c—you fell on the edge of a canoe during summer camp; The obvious burn on your left shoulder: three lit matches pressing against you after you told her you—you were playing with a lighter and it got out of hand...

 

“...and in any case, it's obvious they shouldn't be living with you!”

 

Connolly's suddenly raised voice drags you from your thoughts. He's in your mother's face now, trying to look intimidating despite the fact that she towers him by at least a head. Aranea sits quietly at the table, knowing better than to interfere. But you can see it in her face. She's just about to burst with her input.

 

“I'm taking them away and that's final,” he says, flashing his badge again.

 

“You have no right!” your mother shrieks.

 

“I have every right! I have the right called the stack of paperwork sitting on my desk. I have the right called, you're lucky I'm not arresting you!”

 

You start to laugh and quickly turn it into a fake sneeze at the sight of your mother's glare. Still, you smile behind your hand. You have to admire Connolly's sudden bravery. He's trying so hard.

 

“Girls, go get something packed,” he says, never taking his eyes from your mother. You and Aranea share a look. He barks, “Go on!” and then looks apologetic as the two of you flinch, but rush off to do as he says.

 

You can't help but wonder if this is really happening. Did someone actually finally notice everything your mother was doing? Sure, she put on a great facade for the public eye, but you suppose someone was bound to see through it eventually... Footsteps pass by down the hall and you tense, debating between fight or flight. But no one bothers you so you go back to your packing.

 

You hear muffled voices on the other side of the wall—Aranea's room...Aranea was always the good child, always did what mother asked...It wasn't until your mother walked in on her and her girlfriend that she was suddenly thrown down to your level. Still, she knew how to talk her way out of a problem. Mother must be trying to convince her to stay...

 

And then you hear something you never thought you'd hear. Aranea shouting, loud and clear, that she wished she'd run away years ago and never looked back. How she always had a suitcase packed, even with things for you (that explains where your favorite shirt went) in case the two of you needed to make a quick escape.

 

You have to pause at hearing that. She was going to take you with her? You absently reach up to feel the scar on your left eye. It had left you blind in that eye for a year. But Aranea... You don't remember much, just a bright flash, your eye burning and then suddenly your sister was in front of you, sinking to the ground, your mother stood, aiming something you couldn't see...the ground was dark and red...you remember sitting in a hospital room for hours...your mother saying something about a car crash. You remember thinking that was a stretch.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

You turn, hiding your eye with your hair out of habit, and see Connolly standing behind Aranea, a large suitcase between them. After the memory of the accident, it's strange to see Aranea on her feet, but you clear your head and shut your suitcase.

 

“Yeah, I'm ready.”

 

In the car, it suddenly hits you that you're leaving. For good. As far as you're concerned you never have to acknowledge your mother's existence again. It's sort of...uplifting? Is that the word? You also realize just how early you were forced to wake up. The sun peeks over the horizon, just bright enough to hurt your eyes.

            

You look at Aranea in the front seat, arms wrapped around her frail-looking body. She stares ahead at the road, clearly deep in thought. When did she decide to run away? And what was it that made her change her mind?

             

Connolly attempts to start conversations with small talk and bad jokes, but you ignore him. Oddly enough, so does Aranea. She never misses the opportunity to tell a (ridiculously long winded) story. Maybe things really are changing...

              

You stare back out the window and your eyes feel heavy. But you can't sleep. Something on some subconscious level won't let you.

               

"We've got a long drive ahead of us, girls. May as well settle in," Connolly says, turning on the radio.

_'I've been running from it all my lifetime...there's nothing wrong with you, I'm searching for my right mind...'_

Eventually, you tune out the song enough to sleep, face pressed against the lining of the car door.

\---

You wake again to another noise, a loud bang, and you jolt awake, ready to fight before you realize where you are. You wipe the drool from the corner of your mouth as the trunk closes--another bang--and Aranea appears at your window, dragging your suitcase behind her. You get out of the car, following after your sister, up the sidewalk to the rather large house (not unlike the one you've just left).

"So what are we doing here?" you ask. Aranea tries to ignore you (revenge for earlier, you suppose) but her seeming need to hear herself speak wins over in the end.

"This is mother's sister's house. Our Aunt Marcella. Connolly says we're living with her unless she proves to be an "inefficient guardian", which, considering she's forty years old and never so much as baby sat, I can see being a possibility, but--"

That's as far as Aranea can get before the door opens and she's engulfed in a hug that would break her in half if she were thinner.

"Aranea! Sweetie! I haven't seen you since you were an infant! How are you?"

Your aunt Marcella seems to be nice enough. Then again so could your mother. As she releases Aranea from her grasp, you see her face and have no doubt she and your mother are related. They have the same long nose, heart-shaped face, and broad shoulders--the last of which seemed to skip Aranea and jump to you--but there are noticeable differences. Where your mother's hair is straight and fair (you're convinced she dyed it) Marcella's hair is dark and falls in curls around her tanned shoulders.

There's also something about her eyes. One is a different color, a foggy blue that mists over the pupil, but they are just as calculating as mother's, only there's a spark behind them that makes you want to both befriend her and run for your life.

And of course, her voice and the thick Irish accent that fills it. You wonder about that, but in the end decide that you are half asleep and questions can wait until you remember more than your name.

She turns to you, arms out as if waiting for a hug and when you don't comply, she gently grips your shoulders, holding you still.

"So you're Vriska. I'd have loved meet you, really, but my sister and I didn't exactly see eye to eye..." She brushes aside your bangs and you flinch, but only slightly. You've learned to control that enough to not raise suspicion. Mother's orders. "Apparently, neither did you."

"No, I don't suppose we did," you respond and Marcella smiles. She pats your shoulder and invites you all inside. At the house next door, at the start of the cul-de-sac, you see a man, stocky and built like a wrestler with a beer belly, picking up the paper from the end of his sidewalk. He raises a thick, scarred eyebrow, but waves nonetheless. You wave back, just a half-hearted salute to be polite, before following your aunt into the house.

Despite the fact that she lives alone, Marcella's house is well furnished. You can practically feel the three coffee tables cracking into your shins in the dark. From the front door, there's a living room with a large, squishy couch in front of a fireplace, a kitchen past the far wall, and staircases on the left, one leading up, the other leading down.

"This way. We'll get everything signed and you can take off to help some other poor children, Mr. Connolly," Marcella says as she leads you into the kitchen. "Girls, feel free to look around the house. I won't be long and three of us can go out for a late lunch."

Your stomach growls and you wonder vaguely what time it is. But before you can ask Aranea, she's gone, taking up the offer to explore your new home. You hurry after her as she jogs down the stairs. In the basement you find a television, bigger than you've ever seen in person, hanging on the wall in front of a line of recliners. A popcorn machine sits in the corner, the scent of melted butter hanging in the air. You give an impressed whistle as Aranea makes her way over to the wall sized shelf to browse the movie selection.

You knew there was money in your family--your mother never failed to remind you--but she'd always kept it hidden away, like you were teetering on the edge of middle class. The big house and expensive dresses were the only clue you had that she could send you and Aranea both through college if she chose to do so.

Satisfied that she's inspected everything in the home theater, Aranea climbs the stairs again, with you trailing after. You catch part of Connolly and Marcella's conversation--she laughs at one of his jokes, hopefully just to humor him. You don't think you can take living with someone who makes jokes that unfunny. And you live with Aranea.

The two of you start down the upstairs hallway, checking rooms, curious to see which are yours. You find two rooms, both with beds that are only half put together, one with the headboard sporting a very noticeable crack and the assembly instructions across the room, presumably thrown to the floor in frustration. You and Aranea share a look before shouting, "This one is yours!" But she just beats you to the punch.

"Dammit!" you shout as she walks smugly to the bedroom with the more intact bed. Oh well, it's not really like you've had better. You decide to keep looking and find a room at the end of the hall--the only one that's locked. You assume this must be Marcella's bedroom and you leave it alone. You understand wanting your privacy. Aranea appears behind you, asking questions about whose room this is and you shoo her away with whatever answer you can give.

"Besides," you add, "They're probably done by now, we should head back down."

\--

The late lunch Marcella plans is less awkward than you expected. She takes you to a local place, an Italian restaurant owned by (according to the sign) the Maryam family. A girl about your age with brown skin and short, dark hair, greets you at the door. Her name tag says "Kanaya". You notice she has a very slight accent but you can't place it and give up by the time you sit down.

 

You hear shouting in quick, very angry Spanish but before you can look, another girl who is very clearly related to Kanaya, appears at your table.

"Hello there, my name is Porrim and I'll be your server this afternoon, what can I get you ladies to drink?" Porrim rattles off what is clearly a rehearsed greeting and you hear the same accent Kanaya has. British maybe? No, it's not that... You order a coke and Porrim scribbles it down on a notepad she took from her apron pocket before walking away.

"You have cool tattoos!" you blurt out and Porrim pauses, smiling over her shoulder. She waves a hand, covered up to her shoulder by intricate, swirling tattoos, and thanks you.

"I did them myself. I can do one for you if you like. It's half off if you don't cry."

And with that, Porrim disappears into the kitchen to get your drinks. You've always wanted a tattoo but you knew very well that your mother might literally murder you if you got one.

"You'll be going to school with them," Marcella says, nodding in the direction of the kitchen while her eyes float over to Kanaya, greeting another person into the restaurant. Marcella's eyebrows furrow briefly and she looks instead at Aranea. "You do still go to school, right?"

"Yes, I do," Aranea nods. "I'll be in my senior year of high school this year."

"Good, because it'd look silly if I had to unenroll you." Marcella picks up her menu, looking through it as if she already knows what she wants.

"Why are you Irish?" you ask. "Are we Irish?"

Aranea perks up and you can tell she was wondering the same.

"Ah, right, I was beginning to wonder when you'd ask about that. Well, do you want the long version of this story, or the short?"

"The long one!" Aranea says, excited to hear every detail about why your aunt speaks with an Irish accent and you dont. And, well, you'd be lying if you say you aren't the least bit curious. Marcella sighs and puts down her menu.

"So, I suppose I should start from the beginning then. Your mother Helen and I grew up in a...unpleasant household. Not nearly as unpleasant as I'm sure you two have just escaped, but unpleasant nonetheless. We lived with our grandparents, who'd come from Ireland with our father when he was a tiny thing, and our mother. Mother wasn't around often, she worked, holed up in her office all day on god only knows what, and dad, well, he was a decent fellow. At least until he got a few drinks in him. Unfortunately, Helen got the brunt of his episodes while I hid in my room, a scared little child unsure what to do."

You feel Aranea tense beside you, but you're so focused on Marcella's story you hardly notice.

"Eventually I started trying to stand up for her, maybe keep things from getting worse but the damage was already done," Marcella continues. "Soon we were old enough to move out and we couldn't have left any faster. We lived together shortly, but when she got married a couple of years after high school  she moved away and it was just me."

You're vaguely aware that your drinks are in front of you and you absently try to guide the straw to your mouth, listening intently. You can't help but think that you suddenly don't want kids. You never wanted them in the first place, but this is too similar to your own childhood to take the chance.

"She came back to visit of course, and then to stay when the marriage fell through. A year later, she was living happily married to Mister Right Number Two and their little baby. Not you, dear, he took this one when he left her," Marcella says when Aranea opens her mouth. "So she was back living with me. You," she points at Aranea, "happened with Mister Right Number Three. And he came to live with us. He insisted he had money somewhere and he was only saving it but it was obvious if he hadn't married your mother he'd be homeless."

Aranea looks a little more than disappointed to find out her father was a bum and you snort loudly, your drink almost coming back up your nose.

"Now don't you start laughing, little one, wait til I get to your father. He was a real piece of work. See, when Aranea's father didn't work out--and I can't tell you how glad I was to see him off of my couch-- Helen met Vriska's. He was wealthy enough, almost as much as we'd be in a few years, and he wanted your mother out of my house. I later noticed, on one of her few visits without him, that her accent seemed to be disappearing. I asked her about it and she said that she was trying to get rid of it. Her husband said it sounded "brutish and unrefined" and he wouldn't have it under his roof. So I told her to dump him and come live with me again. We handled her last husband, a child wouldn't be any worse--at the time we didn't know she was pregnant with you-- but something snapped inside her. She suddenly decided that she didn't need me. That her husband was right and that her child shouldn't be raised in such a manner. And then she grabbed baby Aranea who was just toddling along, minding her own business, still learning to walk, and declared that I would never see my niece again before storming out the door. She broke off any and all contact. Then, about nine months later I got a letter.

"She wrote me, telling me that she left him. Not because I was right but because she had another baby and he was adamant there would only be one. Even though, really it's his fault, it's not like she just spontaneously created a baby. Anyways she named the baby Vriska and that was all I ever heard from her, apart from the reading of our grandparents' will. And then I get a call, years later, from child services. And you know the rest, I would think. And I think I can safely assume she never took back her accent. Probably an effort to get as far away from me as possible."

You slurp at what's left of your drink. You can see the wheels in Aranea's head spinning, processing this new information. Porrim comes to ask if you're ready to order and Marcella orders three of the same meal.

"You'll like it, I promise," she says as Porrim replaces your coke. "So, I'm curious, how many husbands did she have since then?"

"Four," Aranea answers.

"Four husbands and eight boyfriends," you cut in. "One of them was nice. He built us a tree house. I think he knew what mother was doing, but he didn't have enough evidence to do anything about it. So he left."

His name was Andy. You liked him.

"I almost feel bad for her," Aranea says, staring into her cup.

"I don't," you snap. "Nothing could ever make me feel pity for that woman."

Marcella's mouth tightens and Porrim sets your food in front of you. You stab at the noodles with a little too much force and settle on shaking your leg to relieve this sudden bout of anger. So your mother had a shitty childhood, so what? It's no excuse for the way she treated you. Besides, Aunt Marcella turned out just fine. Hell, she's probably richer than you ever were before. Aranea, albeit unconsciously, scoots a little bit further into the booth and away from you. You take a deep breath and make a promise to yourself that you'll never let your anger get the best of you. That you'll never become your mother.

Somehow, this makes you feel better and you take another breath, feeling your shoulders relax. You hadn't noticed your knuckles were white until you loosened your grip on your fork.

"So, I think when we get home," Marcella starts, breaking the quiet between you, "we'll decide on who gets what room, and then watch a movie together. I assume you saw the home theater?"

"And decided in the rooms," you add, a small hint of spite in your voice.

"Well, that's one less thing to do then. What should we watch?"

\--

You go to bed strangely happy, considering how the day started. But something about watching the Pirates of the Caribbean movies with your aunt who is strangely knowledgable about pirate history makes you think this might not be so bad. Marcella seems like she genuinely wants to give the two of you a somewhat stable home. You're just settling into your bed, looking out the window over the empty street, and you're suddenly overcome by the urge to sneak out and take a walk. Of course you quickly squash the impulse, mother would never allow it.

Instead, you roll over and close your eyes. But something stirs inside you and you can't sleep. But you need to, you're sure you'll be getting you up early and that's enough to dim your mood. Still, that sentence sounds strange to you and you realize a sudden sense of freedom. Or at the very least, the realization that you could take a midnight walk if you want to. After all, mother can't stop you.

Mother isn't here.

 


	2. Adjusting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vriska and Aranea's day off *ferris beuler music*

Chapter Two: Adjusting

 

The neighborhood, you quickly find, is laid out in a spiral with a few different outlets and a fork on one side. A few houses you pass still have a few windows lit up--children staying up past their bedtime, parents arguing or maybe watching a movie together. It's a nice night out and a little breeze plays with your hair before disappearing--a warning from the coming autumn. It also leaves a vaguely salty smell in the air. Is that the ocean? You briefly recall Connolly saying something about it being a coastal town before you fell asleep. Maybe you'll try and find a dock. You reach the end of the neighborhood and decide against it. At least tonight. You don't know how strict Marcella is going to be and you may already be pressing your luck. A car passes by and you turn around to head home, which you think was in the center of the spiral. 

 

You come to the fork in the road and suddenly realize you don't remember which way you came from.

 

"Well..." you start, trying to remember the map you were drawing in your head. "Shit."

 

Footsteps approach behind you and you freeze, resigning yourself to the fact that it's Marcella and you're in trouble and you're debating whether to run or not when you hear a voice that is decidedly not your aunt. 

  
"You know the stop sign is for cars right? You don't have to wait."

 

You turn to see a boy, maybe Aranea's age, with brown skin and black hair styled in a pomp back away from his sloping forehead. He's wearing a jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows over a red shirt. Possibly on his way home from work. Probably no danger. 

"Or are you just lost?" he continues, a crooked smile adorning his face. He gets closer and you can see the details of his face under the streetlight. Dark eyes shine under thick eyebrows and over a large, hooked nose. Now that he's only a foot away you can tell that you're a head taller and any worry you had that he might be a threat disappears. 

"I'm not lost, I'm just...um...taking the scenic route." 

"Uh-huh, so, where are you goin'?" He pronounces his w's strangely, like he's trying and failing to suppress a Russian accent. 

"To my aunt's house."

He looks you over, squinting a little in the dim light. "You look kinda familiar. Who's your aunt?" 

"Marcella Serket?" You're not sure of the reputation Marcella has in this neighborhood and you're curious to see his reaction. 

"Is she now?" It's a bit underwhelming. Just a slight raising of the eyebrows, a shrug of his broad shoulders. "I can show you where she lives if you want."

"I told you, I'm not lost!" you almost laugh. 

"So I'll walk you home then," he says, offering his elbow. 

"Sure, whatever." You don't take his arm, but wait for him to start walking because despite your protests you are definitely lost. Or at least, lost enough that it would take too long to get home on your own. 

It only takes ten minutes to make your way back to Marcella's house and he stops at the end of the driveway, waving an arm dramatically.

"There y'go, home at last. So I'll see you around then?" 

"Uh, I guess?" You aren't really planning on it. 

"I mean, I live right there," he jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the house next door. "It'd be a little hard not to." 

"Right..." Of course he does. "Anyways."

"I'm Cronus by the way," he says, walking up his own driveway. "You?"

You hesitate, trying to decide if you like him or not, then, "Vriska."

"Alright, Vriska, I'll see you later."

"Yeah," you say with a vague wave. After he disappears, you check your watch. It's after midnight and the front door squeaks. Better try your window. 

You stand in front of the vines that line the wall and start to climb. You're halfway to the small section of roof outside your window when the window below you opens and Marcella sticks her head out.

"A little late, dear, don't you think?" she says. "You've only been here a day and you're already taking midnight strolls?"

You're a bit surprised you can't hear any malice in her voice, only sarcastic amusement, though, you suppose the sight of you clinging to the side of the house in the middle of the night is humiliating enough. 

"Get to bed, dear," she laughs. "We're going school shopping tomorrow and I have to be at work by noon, so I'll get you two up bright and early at nine."

"Yes ma'am," you mumble. 

"No need to call me ma'am sweetie, y'make me feel old."

“Right, sorry.” You look back over your shoulder to address her properly but she's already gone back inside. So instead you focus your efforts on getting back up to your window. But you don't go inside just yet. It's a nice night out and you can actually kind of see the stars. You're lost in your own little world for a few minutes until you hear a window open, bringing you back to reality. 

Across the street Cronus is leaning out his window, waving at you with that stupid crooked grin. You decide it's time to go back inside now and scramble awkwardly back through the window, which is, admittedly, a little too small for you to get through gracefully. Even though you've gone back inside, Cronus is still there, grinning, scratching his nose. You draw the curtains on him and crawl into bed. You fall asleep with the vague nice feeling that you'll at least be getting a few extra hours of sleep in the morning. Mother would hate that. You can imagine her, shouting at Marcella, threatening something she probably would go through with. A small shudder runs down your back and you remind yourself that you’ll never have to worry about Mother again. And yet you can't help but wonder what Mother is doing now that you and Aranea are gone. Has she found someone new to take out her anger on? True it's only been a day, but you've seen her bring home two different men in one night before. You wouldn't put it past her. 

Finally, with an irritated sigh, you shake your head and burrow down further into the blanket.  _ Stop worrying about her, _ you tell yourself,  _ she never cared about you and now you're hours away. _ She can't get to you anymore. Not unless you let her. With a steely glare at the wall and a small nod to yourself you decide to never let her get to you. Not even her memory. Starting tomorrow, you're going to undo everything. Starting with an actual good night's sleep. 

\---

You wake up near the foot of your bed, sore and stiff, but mentally more rested than usual. Spitting out a piece of your own hair, you sit up, looking around the room, trying to remember where you are. The off white walls and suitcase in front of the empty closet bring you back to reality. You're in your room at Marcella's house.

So it wasn't a dream. 

You glance at the alarm clock next to you. It's only seven. You consider getting a couple more hours of sleep, but, after lying in many different positions, you realize that you're awake now. And hungry. Maybe Marcella has cereal, or something. You know how to make eggs. You know how to make a lot of things, thanks to Mother, but at the moment, something simple is your best bet. 

As you shuffle down the stairs you smell waffles, eggs, and something else you can't place. Potatoes? In the kitchen, Aranea is placing food carefully on three plates, already beginning to clean up after herself. She turns, sees you in the doorway and jumps, letting out a small cry of fear and dropping the egg in her hand.

“Oh--shoot!” she says, searching the drawers for a clean rag. You kneel down to help her clean up the egg. 

“I've been up since five,” she says, rinsing the rag clean. “I couldn't go back to sleep so I thought I'd make breakfast.”

“You really went all out.”

“I was bored.” 

You look at the plates of food on the counter and your stomach growls. Taking one, you start for the stairs.

“Let's go watch something.”

\--

“Girls, are you up?” Marcella's voice carries down the stairs. “Who made breakfast?” 

You jerked back up off your hand. After a full stomach it only took you ten minutes to fall back asleep.

“What time is it?” you mumble with vague panic but Aranea is already on the stairs. A few minutes later, you're following her, cleaning your glasses on your shirt. When you put them back on, the image you see strikes you as odd. You were expecting Marcella to be dressed, ready, waiting impatiently for you to do the same. But instead, she's in sweatpants and an old shirt, half awake and stopping between bites of food to tell Aranea that she likes it.

“Morning, dear!” she says when she spots you. “Did you sleep well? Midnight stroll do you some good?” 

Aranea shoots you a look, but you're not sure if it's at the revelation you had snuck out or at how calm Marcella is about it. You smile the least forced smile you've given in a while, and sit at the table across from your aunt.

“It did actually. Cleared my head a little,” you say.

Marcella nods, chewing thoughtfully. “Try not to do that on school nights, yeah?” 

You feel your face grow slightly warm and your shoulders tense. But Marcella isn't angry and you let your guard down from the blow that never comes. You'll have to get used to that.

It's nearly ten by the time you're all out the door and piling into Marcella's car. It's one of those sports cars that has seats for four, but really wasn't meant to. You're suddenly thankful for your long legs as Aranea squishes into the back seat. Marcella drives to a supermarket, windows down like she's enjoying the last bit of warm weather, and when you finally stop, your hair is all over the place. You make a mental note to start tying it back more often, and follow the other two inside.

“Right, what do we need...” Marcella says, pulling a folded list from her pocket. “Notebooks mostly. And pens. I'll buy you a lot of pens because if you're anything like me, you'll lose them within the week.”

The three of you turn the corner and almost crash into another group.

“Ah! Diane! How lovely to see you! Out with your boys today?”

The older man, the one you'd seen getting his paper yesterday, looks vaguely unamused, but smiles anyway. His tone is just as cool and sarcastic as Marcella's. 

“It's Duane. We've been over this. And yes. School starts and I have unfortunately neglected to shop for my boys. Apparently, so did you.” He had the same accent as the boy last night, only thicker.

“They just got here, I have an excuse. You've been stuck with yours since they were young...” 

You tune Marcella out as your eyes fall on one of the two boys. The short one is waving, smiling a crooked grin at you. What was his name? Cronus? In the light you notice a pair of scars on his forehead. Either he was way too dedicated to a harry potter costume, or they're from some other accident. You notice they pale in comparison to the ugly marks across Duane’s face. You humor Cronus with a wave and turn your attention to the third, easily the youngest and towering the other two. He pushes a pair of large, thick-rimmed glasses up his hooked nose. Like the other two, his face is nearly covered in freckles, darkening his already brown skin.

“Come on, dear.” Suddenly Marcella is ushering you back down the aisle and Cronus waves again. 

“Those were the Amporas,” Marcella explained. “You'll probably be seeing a lot of them at school too.”

“And they live next door, don't they?” Aranea asks, reaching up to pick a blue notebook. Then a red. Then a green. Color coding for her classes.

“Cronus seems...okay.” You add, deciding on a set of pens.

“You know his name already?” Marcella asks and you can't tell if she's teasing or not.

“He walked me home last night.” 

“A little gentleman.” Okay, there is definitely a little bit of a bite in her tone.

“Do we not like them?”

“Duane and I have a...complicated relationship. Just be careful I suppose. The Amporas can be a petty bunch when you cross them.”

“Who was the one with the blonde streak?” Aranea asks. “I like his scarf.”

“Eridan. He's about your age,” Marcella nods at you, “And he's a hipster if I ever saw one. Pretentious little git.”

You laugh, fairly sure you weren't meant to hear that last part.

\--

It doesn't take you long to realize that you have more time than you know what to do with. You sit with Aranea, flipping through channels on the big screen while she lets out an annoyed sigh every few because you won't just  _ pick one.  _ Marcella left for work two hours ago without so much as a polite request to clean the house and the two of you are beginning to go stir crazy. 

“Let's go out,” Aranea says sharply, finally snatching the remote from you. “See the town.” 

“You wanna go on foot?” you ask raising an eyebrow. 

“Not particularly,” she huffs. She glances towards the stairs. “We could talk to the neighbors. Introduce ourselves properly before we get to school and everything.”

“And bum a ride around town,” you add.

“I wasn't going to say that!”

“Yes you were.”

“I was not!” she insists and stands up to say she's ending this argument. “But...if we happen to get an offer, who are we to decline?”

“So we're going next door and bumming a ride.”

“No...maybe.” 

You stand up and stretch, hearing your knees pop. 

“Sounds good,” you say and pat your sister on the shoulder. “Let's go see if the Amporas are home.”

\--

“That...has to be the saddest excuse for a vehicle I've seen in my life.”

Cronus’ van is big, purple and almost depressing. The rear left tire is missing its hub cap, the paint is chipped all over, and the driver's side window is either broken or missing. Dents pepper the sides and the back bumper is missing its other half.

“Alright, so it's a bit of a fixer upper,” Cronus says with a shrug. “But she runs.”

“Are we goin’ out or not?” Eridan says from the passenger seat. Cronus waves him off. 

“Let's get goin’ shall we?” he says, waving a hand grandly at the van before crawling up into the driver's seat. You look at Aranea.

“I don't feel safe riding in that thing,” she says, looking the van up and down. “It looks like it might blow up if it goes over forty!”

“Ah, come on,” you elbow her with a grin. “Give it a chance. If we blow up, you can say I told you so later.”

“Come on! Let's go!” Eridan snaps. Aranea takes a deep breath. 

“...Fine,” she grumbles. The two of you crawl into the back and Cronus starts the van and it roars to life without a muffler to keep it down. Aranea tenses and shoots you a look. 

“You don't sneak out much do you?” you shout to Cronus.

“What?” he calls over his shoulder, looking past you as he backs out of the driveway.

“I said you don't--y’know what never mind.”

“Seat belts!” Cronus says over the noise of the engine. Aranea seems to be way ahead of him. With the noise of the muffler there isn't much conversation to your first stop. After about five minutes of Aranea progressively digging her fingernails deeper into your arm with each bump (the van didn't seem to have shocks either) Cronus pulls into a parking lot. You see a sign that says “sk8 away” and you snort out a laugh.

“A skating rink?” you ask, probably louder than you intended. Now that the engine is off your ears are ringing, but at least Aranea has let you go. Cronus opens the door for you.

“What? This is, like, the go to place on a Saturday night.”

“It's two-thirty.”

“Saturday afternoon then,” Cronus shrugs. He leads you to the doors and holds one open for you. It's busier than you thought it would be, a crowd formed around the skating floor all cheering and chanting. 

“What's going on?” you ask. 

“Roller derby match,” Cronus says. Eridan and Aranea break off to sit at an empty table. You and Cronus elbow your way through to crowd to get a better look. The floor is relatively small, and you definitely didn't expect there to be a roller derby team of all things, but sure enough, six people zoom by, sticking close to the walls. A brown skinned girl covered in almost as many bandaids as freckles rams her shoulder into the girl next to her and takes a lead. 

“I don't know how someone that small can pack that much of a punch,” Cronus says. The girl shoots by and you read “bobcat” on her back. She's followed quickly by a tanned redhead whose shirt reads “the dragon”. They cross what must have been the finish because they slow down and a black girl with “piranha” on her back nearly runs into them. The crowd cheers and the winning team rolls into the middle, waving their arms and working up the crowd.

“I take it that's the home team,” you say. You have to lean in so Cronus can hear you over the noise and you can't help but notice his eyes. Dark blue, almost purple in the dim lighting. 

“And the undefeated champs. Haven't lost a match in two years,” he replies. The crowd starts to thin, most of them heading onto the rink as the girls head off. You see “piranha” take off her helmet, two long braids falling out, and she puts on a pair of pink framed glasses. She glances over at the table Aranea is sitting at with Eridan, turns to say something to her teammates and then skates off to their table, taking a seat across from your sister.

“That's Meenah Peixes,” Cronus says before you can ask. “Her mom pretty much owns the town.”

“She's the mayor?” you ask.

“Nah, but she may as well be.” Cronus nods in their direction. “Looks like she's taken an interest in your sister.”

“Ha! I wish her luck.”

“Why? Is she barking up the wrong tree?”

“Eh, more or less. Aranea's had a girlfriend before but it didn't exactly end well.”

He pauses. “Can I ask what happened?” 

“Well, first things first, since you'll probably hear about it anyways, we didn't exactly come from a happy home,” you start, leading him over to an empty table. “And mother wasn't the most tolerant of people. And considering I've only known you for about an hour and a half, I'm gonna leave it at that.”

“So that's why you're livin’ with your aunt?”

“Yup.”

“Wow. I'm real close to my old man, I couldn't imagine having a parent like that.”

Before you can respond, the other two members of the skating team nearly crash into your table.

“Sorry,” the redhead says as bobcat takes her helmet off and shakes free a short mess of dark hair. “It's a little darker out here, hard to tell where I'm going.”

“We just wanted to say hi because you look new here and Meenah might be after your...er...cousin?” says bobcat.

“Sister,” you correct her. “I know the blonde hair kinda throws you off.”

“Yeah! Well tell her to be careful anyways. Meenah can tend to come on a little strong.”

The dragon and bobcat introduce themselves as Terezi and Nepeta respectively before skating off to the concession stand.

“They seem nice,” you say, watching them go. Cronus shrugs.

“They're okay from what I've seen.”

Eridan slides into the booth next to you slouching over the table.

“I couldn't take any more awkw-ward flirting,” he says. Has he always had that stutter? “How long w-were w-we plannin’ on staying here?”

It just seems to be in his w’s and it strikes you as kind of adorable. 

“Not too long I guess,” Cronus answers. “Mainly just wanted to see the end’a the match. Should we see if Aranea's ready to leave?”

You stand up and nod, but before you can get to her table, she's heading for the door with Meenah. Aranea spots you and waves, pointing at Meenah to signal she's leaving with her.

“Well I guess it's just us three then,” Cronus says, twirling his keys around his finger. “On to the next.”

The three of you crawl in the van and you sit on the seat up against the two front ones. You sit backwards on your knees so that you might be able to start some semblance of conversation. 

“So w-what should w-we do?” Eridan asks as Cronus starts the van.

“Well I've got a couple ideas,” Cronus says with a wink. Eridan punches him in the arm.

“I barely know this girl and I can already tell you she'd destroy you.”

“Well I wouldn't say I'm  _ that _ good,” you say, but your comment goes unnoticed under the sound of the engine. After what you think is a debate between Eridan and Cronus, the three of you end up driving around town. The sun is out, and Cronus’ air conditioning is broken so you're grateful for the open window. That is until you come to a stop light and Cronus glances at you.

“Holy shit what happened to your eye?” he shouts and you realize the wind had moved your hair. You quickly turn around out of his sight and shake your head.

“Nothing,” you shout back. “It was an accident.” 

You can practically feel Eridan and Cronus exchange a look behind you and your shoulders tense. This isn't how you want to be known around here. Not as the girl who just escaped a bad home. That's the last thing you need to put it behind you.

“W-why don't w-we head back home,” Eridan says. “I forgot I had homew-work I need to start.”

Great.

Ten minutes later, you're pulling into Cronus’ garage. Eridan gets out and Cronus comes around to open the door for you. You begin to wonder if he's being a gentleman or if it just doesn't open from the inside. Cronus stands aside so you can jump out, but stops you as you head back towards Marcella's house.

  
  


“D’you, uh, d’you wanna come in? I can make us something to eat and we've got a game table downstairs.”

You look him over, trying to decide whether he's doing this out of pity or not. 

“Yeah okay.”

\--

The Ampora’s basement can only be described as a man cave. There's a large tv on one wall with at least three game systems plugged into it, a well worn couch facing it. On the other side is a ping pong table that looks like it converts into a Foosball table, a couple of old arcade games, and very small bar which probably only serves Mr. Ampora and his friends.

“Take a seat anywhere,” Cronus says, waving his arm grandly around the room. “I'll be right back with some snacks and then maybe we can see how good you are at Mariokart.”

  
You walk around the room, looking everything over before flopping down on the couch, waiting for 

Cronus. As it turns out, Eridan really did have homework so you're alone for now. It isn't long before Cronus appears down the stairs carrying three bowls: chips, pretzels, and pizza rolls. He sets these on the coffee table in front of the couch.

“So,” he says, flopping down next to you and handing you a controller, “What d’you wanna play?”

\--

To your surprise, Marcella is home before Aranea.

“Where's your sister?” she asks, spotting you alone on the couch. You use your finger to mark your spot in the book you were reading and shrug.

“Uh...out with a friend?”

“That was fast,” Marcella says, setting her bag on the kitchen table. “So what did you two do today?”

“We convinced Cronus and Eridan to show us around town?” You say it cautiously, wondering if Marcella would approve or not. 

“That sounds fun,” she says, pulling things from the pantry to start on dinner.

“Yeah it was alright. Aranea sort of ditched us for some girl she met so really they just showed  _ me _ around town and then we went back to their house to play video games.” 

“Sounds like you're getting on pretty well with the Ampora boys.” You can't see Marcella but you can hear the smile in her voice and your face burns a little.

“Yeah well they can get a little annoying. And Eridan is way better at Mariokart than he should be.” You need to change the subject before she implies anything else. “So what are you making for dinner?” 

“Nothing too complicated. How do you feel about venison?”

You're about to answer when the door opens and Aranea slips through, waving with a goofy smile on her face. She turns and sees you, eyebrow raised, and turns red, clearing her throat. 

“Sorry I'm late,” she says, heading for the stairs. 

“You're just in time actually, I was about to make dinner,” Marcella replies. Aranea pauses.

“Oh! Um...I'm actually not that hungry... Meenah took me to um...we went out so I'll just be...yeah...” That seems to be all she can manage before shooting up the stairs to hide in her room. You're sure you hear a poorly suppressed giggle before she disappears.

“That is the first time she hasn't been able to complete a sentence,” you say, setting your book down and getting up. “I haven't seen her that flustered since...ah...never mind.”

The last time Aranea came home that happy, she'd met a girl. Marcella definitely seems to be nicer about most things than your mother ever was, but, maybe it might be best to keep some things hidden. Marcella gives you a questioning look, but goes back to cutting vegetables. 

“Give me a hand with dinner, will ya dear?” she says. You shrug.

“Yeah okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a little more dialogue heavy than the last one but I tried to make it just as long. It's also just sort of a few things happening with some time breaks in between and this has just been to show how they're realizing that their lives don't have to be fight or flight anymore. It won't be totally like this in the future.


End file.
